The old woman sat by the hearth7 and smoked. Rachel waited with fear at her heart, but the hours went by and still Stephen did not appear. The old woman dozed8 before the fire and snored. At length, when the night had worn on towards midnight, an unsteady step came to the door, and Stephen reeled into the house drunk. The old woman awoke and laughed.
Rachel grew faint and sank to a seat. Stephen dropped to his knees on the ground before her, and in a maudlin9 cry went on to tell of how he had thought to make one hundred crowns of her sixty by a wager10, how he had lost fifty, and then in a fit of despair had spent the other ten.
“Then all is gone—all,” cried Rachel. And thereupon the old woman shuffled11 to her feet and said bitterly, “And a good thing too. I know you—trust me for seeing through your sly ways, my lady. You expected to take my son from me with the price of your ginger12 hair, you ugly bald-pate.”
Rachel’s head grew light, and with the cry of a baited creature she turned upon the old mother in a torrent13 of hot words. “You low, mean, selfish soul,” she cried, “I despise you more than the dirt under my feet.”
Worse than this she said, and the old woman called on Stephen to hearken to her, for that was the wife he had brought home to revile14 his mother.
The old witch shed some crocodile tears, and Stephen lunged in between the women and with the back of his hand struck his wife across the face.
At that blow Rachel was silent for a moment, and then she turned upon her husband. “And so you have[134] struck me—me—me,” she cried. “Have you forgotten the death of Patriksen?”
The blow of her words was harder than the blow of her husband’s hand. The man reeled before it, turned white, gasped15 for breath, then caught up his cap and fled out into the night.
Stephen never comes back, and the son born to Rachel is christened Jason and is the “Bondman” of the tale. He is brought up by his mother in one of the meanest huts in the fishing quarter of the Icelandic capital, and supported by her drudgery16. After nineteen years of flickering17 belief in her husband’s return, she comes by the knowledge that he is indeed living, but with another wife and another son, in the Island of Man. Broken-hearted and worn-out with hard living, Rachel sinks to her death, and, with her cold hand in his, Jason swears the oath that forms the motive18 of the book.
“My father has killed my mother.”
“No, no, don’t say that,” said the priest.
“Yes, yes,” said the lad more loudly; “not in a day, or an hour, or a moment, but in twenty long years.”
“Hush19, hush, my son,” the old priest murmured.
But Jason did not hear him. “Now listen,” he cried, “and hear my vow20.” And still he held the cold hand in his, and still the ashy face rested on them.
“I will hunt the world over until I find that man, and when I have found him I will slay21 him.”
“What are you saying?” cried the priest.
But Jason went on with an awful solemnity. “If he should die, and we should never meet, I will hunt the world over until I find his son, and when I have found him, I will kill him for his father’s sake.”
“Silence, silence,” cried the priest.
“So help me, God!” said Jason.
Stephen Orry, on leaving his wife, has left Iceland as seaman22 in an English ship, and deserted23 from it on touching24 the Isle25 of Man. There he finds a companion in “the slattern and drab of the island,” and though vaguely26 ashamed of her, marries her. Michael, “little Sunlocks,” is the offspring of this unhappy union, a union becoming more degrading and more horrible to Stephen with every year of the child’s life. The father’s tortured brain, after trying every other means within his knowledge, resolves to kill his son rather than leave him to grow up under the influence of such a mother, and[136] with that purpose he takes the child out to sea in his little boat. This passage is one of most beautiful that Hall Caine has yet written.
Little Sunlocks had never been out in the boat before and everything was a wonder and delight to him.
“You said you would take me on the water some day. Didn’t you, father?”
“Yes, little Sunlocks, yes.”
It was evening, and the sun was sinking behind the land, very large and red in its setting.
“Do the sun fall down eve’y day, father?”
“It sets, little Sunlocks, it sets.”
“What is sets?”
“Dies.”
“Oh!”
The waters lay asleep under the soft red glow, and over them the sea-fowl were sailing.
“Why are the white birds sc’eaming?”
“Maybe they’re calling their young, little Sunlocks.”
It was late spring, and on the headland the sheep were bleating27.
“Look at the baby one—away, away up yonder. What’s it doing there by itself on the ’ock, and c’ying, and c’ying, and c’ying?”
“Maybe it’s lost, little Sunlocks.”
“Then why doesn’t somebody go and tell its father?”
And the innocent face was full of trouble.
The sun went down, the twilight28 deepened, the air grew chill, the water black, and Stephen was still pulling round the head.
“Father, where does the night go when we are asleep?”
“To the other world, little Sunlocks.”
“Oh, I know—heaven.”
Stephen stripped off his guernsey and wrapped it about the child. His eyes shone brightly, his mouth was parched29, but he did not flinch30. All thoughts, save one thought, had faded from his view.
But no, he could not look into the child’s eyes and do it. The little one would sleep soon, and then it would be easier done. So he took him in his arms and wrapped him in a piece of sailcloth.
“Shut your eyes and sleep, little Sunlocks.”
“I’m not s’eepy, I’m not.”
Yet soon the little lids fell, opened again and fell once more, and then suddenly the child started up.
“But I haven’t said my p’ayers.”
“Say them now, little Sunlocks.”
Then lisping the simple words of the old Icelandic prayer, the child’s voice, drowsy31 and slow, floated away over the silent water:—
“‘S’eeping or waking, verily we
To God alone belong;
As darkness walks, and shadows flee,
We sing our even-song.’”
“There’s another verse, little Sunlocks—another verse.”
“‘O Father, we are Thy children all,
Thy little children, so weak and small.
Let angels keep
Guard of our s’eep,
And till we wake our spi’its take,
Eternal God, for Ch’ist His sake.’”
He finds it impossible to murder the innocent little one, and returns home to find his wife dead.
Then he decides to give the child away, never doubting but that the sunshine of his broken life would be an acceptable present to anyone. The Deputy-Governor, a man of great benevolence32 and generosity33, is his choice; and the Governor accepts the trust, thereby34 estranging35 his wife and his own six sons. Adam Fairbrother, the Deputy-Governor, has a daughter of Michael’s age, and until little Greeba goes away to be brought up in the household of the Duke of Athol, the two children live and play together. Michael grows up to be his foster-father’s right hand, and the jealousy37 of the six sons and their mother cause a rupture38 in the family, the mother and sons taking the gift of all Adam’s private property and going away to live on it. At the age of eighteen, Greeba returns from London, and at the same time Stephen Orry reappears. He has gathered together two hundred pounds, and with it he asks that Michael shall go to[139] Iceland, there to search out Rachel and her child and succour them from the poverty-stricken life in which Stephen had left them, so long before. Michael refuses the money, but accepts the charge, and takes ship for Iceland on the very day that Jason, in pursuance of his vow, reaches the Isle of Man.
Jason lands on the island, only to rescue his father from drowning and watch over him as he dies. He takes up life with Adam Fairbrother’s sons, and for four years grows in love for Greeba and her father. Then the office of Deputy-Governor is taken from Adam; and turning for home to his wife, in the house that he had given her, is refused admission. He remembers Michael Sunlocks, and determines to go to him in Iceland, leaving Greeba to live with her mother, and the love of none but Jason. The mother dies and the sons treat Greeba very hardly, so that she accepts the love of Jason. Then comes a letter from Michael which fans into flame the embers of her love. He writes to her, tells her of his position,[140] and asks her to come out to him to be his wife. In a scene which shows the height of Jason’s nobility, Greeba takes back her love.
“It is no fault of yours, but now I know I do not love you.”
He turned his face away from her, and when he spoke39 again his voice broke in his throat.
“You could never think how fast and close my love will grow. Let us wait,” he said.
“It would be useless,” she answered.
“Stay,” he said stiffly, “do you love anyone else?”
But before she had time to speak he said quickly, “Wait! I’ve no right to ask that question, and I will not hear you answer it.”
“You are very noble, Jason,” she said.
“I was thinking of myself,” he said.
“Jason,” she cried, “I meant to ask you to release me, but you have put me to shame, and now I ask you to choose for me. I have promised myself to you, and if you wish it I will keep my promise.”
At that he stood, a sorrowful man, beside her for a moment’s space before he answered her, and only the tones of his voice could tell how much his answer cost him.
“No—ah, no,” he said; “no, Greeba, to keep your promise to me would be too cruel to you.”
“Think of yourself now,” she cried.
“There’s no need to do that,” he said, “for either way I am a broken man. But you shall not also be[141] broken-hearted, and neither shall the man who parts us.”
Saying this, a ghastly white hand seemed to sweep across his face, but at the next moment he smiled feebly and said, “God bless you both.”
Greeba goes to Michael and Iceland, and Jason, remembering his vow, follows her. A succession of events have made Sunlocks the Governor of Iceland, for its short-lived Republic. Knowing that the man he is in search of is the Governor, Jason now finds that the Governor is Michael Sunlocks. Beside himself with the knowledge of all the man has unconsciously stolen from him, Jason dogs him with intent to kill, but, being discovered by Greeba, is denounced by her and sentenced to penal40 servitude in the sulphur-mines.
The six sons of Adam Fairbrother, discovering the purpose of Greeba’s flight from their home, decide that in brotherliness they will go to her and share her prosperity. Failing in their purpose, they successfully attempt to poison Michael’s mind against her, telling him that Greeba[142] had loved Jason at the time that she had left the Isle of Man. Michael, in his revulsion of feeling, determines to take from Greeba the position for the sake of which he believes her to have married, and summons the Althing in order to resign his office of Governor. While the meeting is in progress, the doors of the Senate House are locked, and the building surrounded by Danish soldiers. The Republic is overthrown41, and Michael Sunlocks, as a political prisoner, is sent to the mines.
Thus the most touching and at the same time the most terrible part of the story is reached. Touching because of the great love that grows up in Jason’s heart for Sunlocks, his bondfellow; terrible, because of the fiendish inhumanities of Michael’s lot. This is the description of the place of torment43.
It was a grim wilderness44 of awful things, not cold and dead and dumb like the rest of that haggard land, but hot and alive with inhuman42 fire and clamorous45 with devilish noises. A wide ashen46 plain within a circle of hills whereon little snow could rest for the furnace[143] that raged beneath the surface; shooting with shrill47 whistles in shafts48 of hot steam from a hundred fumeroles; bubbling up in a thousand jets of boiling water; hissing49 from a score of green cauldrons; grumbling50 low with mournful sounds underneath51, like the voice of subterranean52 wind, and sending up a noxious53 stench through heavy whorls of vapour that rolled in a fetid atmosphere overhead. Oh, it was a fearsome place, like nothing on God’s earth but a mouldering54 wreck55 of human body, vast and shapeless, and pierced deep with foulest56 ulcers57; a leper spot on earth’s face; a seething58 vat5 full of broth36 of hell’s own brewing59. And all around was the peaceful snow, and beyond the line of the southern hills was the tranquil60 sea, and within the northern mountains was a quiet lake of water as green as the grass of spring.
Spurred by the cruel treatment of Sunlocks, Jason breaks away, carrying on his shoulders the half-insensible body of his now blind and maimed companion. They manage to reach the valley of Thingvellir, where the biennial61 of Althing is taking place, and there, as the custom allows, Jason demands justice and freedom. It is granted to him as a criminal of Iceland, but denied to Sunlocks as a Danish prisoner; and Sunlocks is therefore sent in his helpless, blind condition to the[144] custody62 of a priest on an outstanding island. There Greeba, who has followed him in his wanderings, takes domestic service with the priest, that she may tend Michael and win back his love, and there Jason comes, to lay down his life for his friend after effecting his escape.
Thus ends one of the most powerful novels ever written, great by reason of its strength of thought and directness of utterance64. And yet, here and there in its pages, are passages of wonderful softness, tender pictures of the consolation65 of childhood—little Sunlocks, little Greeba, and the little child Michael. This is what we grow to look for in Hall Caine, the tenderness and the tragedy of humanity. They form the strength of his novels, and it is they that will make them live through the ages, based as they are on truths and passions that are old as the world is old.
The publication of The Bondman established, once and for all, Hall Caine’s claims to genius; it confirmed the impression created by The Deemster, and there was[145] hardly one dissentient voice in the verdict of the critics who proclaimed it as one of the masterpieces of the century. The late T. E. Brown wrote the following letter to Mr Caine immediately after reading The Bondman.
“Clifton, February 1890.
“My Dear Sir,—I have sent a review of The Bondman to the Scots Observer by same post; and I hope that it will appear in next Saturday’s issue.
“A thousand thanks for the work sent to me by Heinemann. How splendidly he has done it! I am reading it again with fresh interest and admiration66. Nor is it otherwise than pleasant to me to find in your story some trail of what I must suppose is old inveterate67 Manxness. How curious that you should have preserved echoes, however faint, of your father’s talk! But why curious? Still you will agree with me that they ought to be ruthlessly (!) extirpated68. They turn up in your English, not in your Anglo-Manx. I give an instance—after the verb threaten an inversion69 as with interrogations, e.g., ‘He threatened what would he do to them.’ Let me give that in your ear with full Manx flavour, and you will feel yourself standing63 very close to the Lob-y-Valley. But even without the flavouring, you perceive that it is Manx, though it may be a rusticity70 common to many parts of the country.
“Trailing behind her these insignificant71 appendages72, your book floats forth73 to certain success, a magnificent craft, fit for deep waters and the large horizon. Good[146] luck to her! Kindest regards to Mrs Caine and Ralphie, in which my daughters cordially unite.—Ever yours,
“T. E. Brown.”
This letter is but one out of many hundreds received by Mr Caine from all parts of the world, congratulating him on his success. The dramatic tension, so admirably sustained throughout every page of the book, took the literary world by storm, and the sale of the book to-day, eleven years after publication, is extremely large.
The Bondman was written with Mr Caine’s usual care. With his wife and child he paid a two months’ visit to Iceland, there to gather material and local colour for his book. It was begun in March 1889, at Aberleigh Lodge74, Bexley Heath, Kent, and was finished in October of the same year at Castlerigg Cottage, Keswick. Always greatly attracted by Cumberland, Mr Caine had now settled down there permanently75; it was not until a few years afterwards that he made his home in the Isle of Man.
Later in this year Sir Henry Irving commissioned him to write a drama with Mahomet as the central character. The subject fascinated him, and in a short time he was immersed in the study of Mahomet, his life and his times. Three acts were written in a fever of enthusiasm; and then came a great disappointment. The almighty76 British Public, hearing of Mr Caine’s work, took upon itself to be shocked, and, growing tired of silent indignation, raised its voice in alarm, and protested vehemently77. The Press took up the cry and pointed79 out that British Mohammedans would certainly be offended. Sir Henry took alarm, and telegraphed to Mr Caine that the idea could not be carried out. But the dramatist was heart and soul in his work, and only spared the time to write a vehement78 article in The Speaker, pointing out that his critics were too hasty, before he went on with the writing of his play and finished it. Irving, of course, was as much annoyed as Mr Caine, and offered the latter a substantial[148] sum to recompense him for the trouble he had taken; Mr Caine, however, refused to accept a penny, and offered his play to Willard for production in America. It was at once accepted, but has not yet been put on the boards.
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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revile
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| v.辱骂，谩骂 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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drudgery
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flickering
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motive
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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isle
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vaguely
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bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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twilight
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parched
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flinch
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drowsy
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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generosity
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thereby
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estranging
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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jealousy
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rupture
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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penal
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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inhuman
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torment
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wilderness
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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ashen
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shrill
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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hissing
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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underneath
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subterranean
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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ulcers
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| n.溃疡( ulcer的名词复数 )；腐烂物；道德败坏；腐败 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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60
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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biennial
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| adj.两年一次的 | |
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62
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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63
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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64
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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65
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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67
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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68
extirpated
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 )；根除 | |
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69
inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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70
rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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71
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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73
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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74
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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